Dandelion Dreams

One of my favorite things about spring are dandelions. Not when they're yellow and full of that sticky, smelly substance that oozes out of the stem if you pick them, but when they're white puff balls scattered over the lawn. My little brother kept picking them for me today and asking me to blow them (he doesn't believe that he is just as capable of doing so yet). I happily obliged him.

There's something very enchanting about watching the seeds get caught up and whisked off by the wind. I think dreams are like that. They seem so fleeting and fragile sometimes, like the smallest breeze will snatch them away.

But all those dandelion seeds land somewhere. Maybe a block down the street, maybe miles away. Who knows? Not all of them will take root and bloom. Many of them will though.

I think dreams are like that too. When we let them out, the winds of life may very well take them to some inhospitable place where they languish and die. But some dreams, some dreams, take root in our hearts. Roots 

deep enough that when the wind sweeps them up, they take us as well.

Those kind of dreams are the kind that take us places we never thought we'd end up - places full of hope and beauty and joy and wonder. Those dreams never die. They may change form, like a dandelion that changes from seedling to flower, but the dream itself remains the same.

There's something very enchanting about dreams, about discovering them, pursuing them, and watching them bear fruit. There's a certain wonder that goes with them. Like wondering where a dandelion seed will land, we wonder at where our own dreams might take us, even as we watch and wonder at the dreams of others. The question is always the same: will they come true? Will they bear fruit and what kind of fruit will it be?

That's the part of dreams that really get to us, I think - the possibility. Maybe they won't happen. Maybe they will. Either way, though, it's possible. And, somehow, that's enough.

At least, it is for me.